


come as you are

by kalimero



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Episode: s07e07 The Dragon and the Wolf, F/M, Introspection, Post-Episode: s07e06 Beyond the Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalimero/pseuds/kalimero
Summary: Three times men knock on Dany’s cabin door and one time she opens.





	come as you are

_.eastwatch to dragonstone._

**i.**

Her tears are silent. There is no sound. Only the water crushing against the ship and the blood rushing in her ears. Maybe they are one and the same.

_The screech, the fall…_

She is shaking. A tremor is running through her body, not enough to disturb her stillness as she sits on the bed, hands folded, but enough to disturb something in her. She feels it. The gentle touch of the waves. They rock the ship, back and forth, as if it were a cradle. As if a higher power was trying to comfort her.

_The burst of blood, the ice breaking, swallowing him…_

Dany can only do so much to forget. She has suffered enough in her young life to know that she must bear the pain until it becomes a part of her. Like he had been. Her child. Gone forever.

She wants to scream. She wants to bury her head in her hands. Wants to undo all her braids, weave her fingers through her curls, tear at her scalp. She wants to weep with abandon, with no regard for appearances, with fury and rage and all that is wrong with the world.

But she knows that if she does, she is lost. She will be broken. So she stares at the wall, a stoic statue tasting the salt of the sea on the tip of her tongue, cold cheeks burning.

There is no thought to it when her fingers find the ring. The ring that she had worn at Jon’s bedside. She is still wearing it now and she wonders whether she has slept at all. He slept, this morning, when she went to visit him again, or maybe he feigned sleep to spare her the embarrassment. Time is out of joint. She remembers the warmth of his skin, his grip, the warmth that had spread through her at his touch, the guilt she had felt for feeling good about something when her child had just died. No one should ever feel good in a moment like that. That is the truth.

_My queen…_

She is scared. All the assassins and assaults, all the revolts and betrayals, and she has never been more scared than this. It cannot be true. Life takes and it–

A knock on the door cuts through her thoughts like the crack of a whip.

Dany blinks. Then she takes a deep breath.

Another knock, softer.

She attempts to compose herself. Gingerly lifts her hand to her face and wipes the hot trail of tears away. There is no end to them. They blaze through her heart. Only so much she can do.

“Your Grace?”

Ser Davos, his voice muffled by the damp wood keeping him on the other side. She would like to speak with him. Assuage any worries he might have. Ask him about the scars, learn their history once and for all. But if she could hear it from Jon-- But does it matter _how_ it happened? Only _that_ it happened. And she has seen that.

Ser Davos invites her to dine with the crew. Says she has not eaten in days. That he could also have something delivered to her cabin.

At that, Dany is overcome with a fresh stream of tears, for reasons unknown to her. She opens her mouth to answer but feels her throat closing up. Not even a croak escapes. Finally, she covers her eyes with the palm of her hand, catching and catching and falling.

He voices his apologies, should he have bothered her, and says that he will be joining the watchkeepers at the helm, should she come looking for him. And Dany cannot help but miss Missandei and her handmaidens and Tyrion even, anyone who could have torn her from this reverie sooner. Ser Jorah is too respectful of her grief. But grief does not deserve respect. Not when it comes at a time of war and need.

Receding footsteps tell her that she is alone again. When had she ever not been? When Viserys was still alive? When he was younger, before he was cruel? When Drogo was still… after she had taught him not take her against her will? When Rhaego was… but he never was. She still has her children, her other children, but they are not here. They cannot be here. Why is she not with them? She could have flown back to Dragonstone.

The ring. She touches it once again. Turns it. Stops.

Dany cannot remember the last time she has felt so vulnerable. So weak. If she could just pretend…

But she cannot.

*

Later that day, resting at Jon’s bedside, she falls asleep. When she wakes, lifting her head from the blanket she had drawn up to his chin, not wanting him to freeze, she meets his gaze. Neither of them looks away. She wonders whether he had watched her as she had watched him in the morning. His eyes smile. For a moment, she is tempted to excuse herself. But a headache has settled in her skull, so she lowers herself again. He withdraws his arm to make space and then, with only the slightest hesitation, places his hand on the side of her face. Her cheek is cold and his skin is warm and Dany wonders whether it should not be the other way around.

Then she slides back into darkness.

 

**ii.**

She is reading. The letters are merging. There is so much on her mind. There always is. But now there is something else and...

Dany closes her eyes. Her fingertips ghost over the folio in front of her, vellum, calfskin, smooth to the touch. Flesh side. It soothes her to draw circles on the illuminated page, to feel the ink, the specks of gold. One day, some scribe will immortalize her place in history. No matter what happens next, no matter who wins or who dies, a paragraph will be set aside for her, a paragraph or two, and it will tell the tale whence she came, who she married, who she lost, who she conquered and united and saved. Come to think of it, the list of her titles will occupy one paragraph by itself. More then. Three, at least.

These thoughts used to comfort her. Now they leave her feeling empty. Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, what will it all have been good for? They will sing and listen and it will mean nothing to her because she will be dead. She knows the adoring chants of the masses but they do not know her. They know the Queen she wants to be. But in a way, not every way but one way, she is a woman like any other woman.

Something constricts in her chest. It might be the beat of fear.

Someone knocks at the door. For a crazed moment, she hopes that Jon has healed. That he got up and–

But no. Duty before life. Life before death.

She opens her eyes and is surprised to see Ser Jorah in the doorway, watching her intently. Then she remembers that the door had not been closed.

He does not dare step into the room unless she invites him. She does not.

He clears his throat and informs her that they will be arriving at Dragonstone soon. She nods her understanding.

_Was there something else?_

It suffocates the air.

He lingers and looks at her like he always does, as if he wanted to tell her so many things but did not want her to hear them at the same time. Has ever a man worshipped a woman so valiantly? There is no reward for it that she can command and his weathered pain speaks to it. The face of a man resigned.

She tells him that she is glad that he came back, that he is alive. It is true. Not enough, but true.   

He reminds her that she saved them and he seems to be saying that she saved _him_ and Ser Jorah does not mean himself. Still, there is genuine gratitude in his words, the kind that only one can express who receives much less than he knows he wants but expects nothing more than he thinks he deserves.

Dany wants to reassure him, then, in that moment, of _something_ but nothing crosses the threshold of her lips. They seal her mouth shut. Because she _knows_. And so does he.

He excuses himself and leaves and that is all there will ever be to it.

She feels some guilt over this, too, but there is Viserion and there is war and there is only so much she can fault herself for. This is not it.

*

Later that day, Tyrion awaits them on the shore. His relief at seeing her unharmed is palpable but there is a shadow cast over his eyes. Drogon and Rhaegal have returned before her; they circle above. He knows of her loss and she knows what he is thinking. That she should never have gone. But he is wrong. Fortune favors the bold. The fight is not over yet. It would have been, had she never come to believe.

The walk to the castle is long. In the past weeks, Jon has recovered well but Ser Davos insists that he be carried so as not to exert himself. Tyrion looks worried. They all look worried. All except for Jon, it seems. He stares at her when he thinks she is watching her steps and turns away when she catches him from the corner of her eye. She knows that if they were alone, he would not. He would keep staring. There is no secret between them anymore. All that is unsaid, all that they still have to discover about each other and the lives they have led, it passes between them in those moments.

Dany takes a deep breath and reminds herself that this is not what she came to Westeros for. That this is not why she suffered what she suffered to cross the Narrow Sea and take back what was stolen from her family. But maybe... maybe it is. Maybe she can do it all _and_ have this.

*

In the evening, they hold a strategic meeting. There is no time to waste.

Flames are dancing in the fireplace, casting the painted table in an ominous light. A chill descends on the war room, a breeze blowing from the sea, sharpened on the rocky cliffs. The fire flickers and throws sparks into the air like particles of dust, floating from the glowing embers towards the dark.

This is the fate to come.

The mood is solemn.

They are about to begin when footsteps echo from the rugged walls. Uneven, heavy, accompanied by the sound of a cane hitting the floor. Jon enters, to everyone’s surprise. He is leaning on a crutch but fully dressed, looking as composed as ever. Ser Davos narrows his eyes, not quite disapproving but not quite pleased either. He clearly wishes Jon would remain in bed to convalesce. Tyrion, meanwhile, eyes Jon with an inscrutable expression, the cogs in his brain turning and turning.

A few tense looks are exchanged before Jon inclines his head ever so slightly to indicate to Dany that she should continue with what she was about to say. She blinks and clears her throat, placing her stretched fingers on the table for support. The wood feels as ancient as it must be. She imagines her forebears standing where she is standing now. It gives her strength.

She recounts the mission without dwelling on Viserion’s death. She declares it a success despite the loss. Somewhere in the castle, a wight is rattling in a chest. She thinks she can hear the faint clank of the chains.

Her speech is not rousing. It does not call for fire and blood. Where her convictions of old were spat in a grandiose and furious fashion, her words are quieter now, colder. But her gaze brushes past Jon more often than the others and he is watching her with such understanding – admiration even – that she feels as sure as she ever has. Where her promises used to ring hollow in her own ears, they are now full of purpose, true purpose, not one she inherited or one she deemed noble. No, this is existential. She can make a difference. They can make a difference.

And maybe it will be enough.

 

_.dragonstone to white harbor._

 

**iii.**

It is raining. The downpour is whipping against the ship with an angry might, pattering a relentless rhythm into the hull. Ser Davos has reassured them that the storm will soon pass but that is hard to believe in that very moment. They have only set sail mere hours ago and already the voyage is tempting the elements. Flakes of snow blend into the rushing water. Winter is well and truly here.

Dany is playing with one of her braids which is unlike herself. She is restless and knows why but does not want to dwell on it. Missandei is keeping her company. They talk about this and that, the way they have not had the opportunity to do in weeks. It is nice. Comforting. Familiar.

When Missandei sees that the braid has come loose, she smiles and crosses the cabin to settle herself beside her friend on the bed. Gently, she takes the braid from her hands and begins to weave the strands together anew.

“He is handsome,” she says and they both know whom she is speaking of. They spoke of him this way once before, shortly after his first arrival at Dragonstone. Silly banter. Dany had reacted frostily then and Missandei had not broached the subject since. Now, she casts a knowing glance at her Queen and Dany cannot find it in herself to resist the implications again.

“He is.”

Of course he is. Anyone with eyes can see that.

But she blinks, uncomfortable, and looks away. Missandei knows her. This is an admission of something else.

“Will you marry him?” her friend asks, carefully, watching the delicate work of her own fingers threading through the silvern hair.

Dany swallows. It would make sense, of course. She left Daario behind in Meereen for this express purpose. Tyrion has insinuated similar on occasion. And yet...

But before she can answer, a rapid fire of knocks disturbs the silence.

It is Tyrion, come to speak in private.

“Not now,” she calls out.

He complies. Begrudgingly so. It is obvious despite the jovial tone in his voice. He is good at hiding his grievances but she is adept at sensing them. Not all of them, perhaps. But she knows what he is here to talk about.

_Do you still deny it?_

She would say: _There is nothing to deny._

And he would say: _Sounds like a denial._

And he would be right. But she is too tired for his game of words. She has seen the look on his face in the last months. When he is not serious, he is amused. And when he is amused, he looks like he might not be amused after all, underneath the layers of self-deprecation he has wrapped around himself. A mind that thinks will always be troubled.

So she sends him away, to talk another time. The journey will be long and she has enough troubles of her own, for the moment.

Missandei has finished her handiwork and beams at her in the sweet way that only she can. Her question weighs heavily still.

_I should marry him._

Dany knows that this is sensible. He is the most eligible candidate. She likes him. More than that. He is the most improbable person she has ever met. A bastard made king. A swordsman who does not enjoy fighting. A merciful man and a respected leader. Someone who has authority despite himself, who has no aspiration for power, who thinks of others before he thinks of himself.

A part of her screams that there must a flaw – a fatal flaw. But she knows that that is not true. Yes, he is stubborn. He is not the most brilliant strategist. Someone who acts before he thinks; sometimes, at least. She recognizes some of these qualities in herself and finds that they make him no less appealing.

Worst of all, she trusts him. She could not have imagined when she sailed for Westeros that she would meet someone like him, someone who makes her ashamed to be less than she ought to be but also proud to be someone that he would respect. Someone that he would look at the way he does. He respects her enough to let her know when she is wrong, to overrule her where it is within his right, but never without good cause.

She could never have imagined to feel what she feels when his eyes are on her.

And that is why she cannot entertain the notion of marriage.

“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. _Not yet_ , she thinks.

They share something. It is frail and ill-timed and she is afraid it might be real. She knows that she is infatuated, she knows from the way her stomach tightens and her muscles tense, she knows from all these sensations running through her body that she has never known before, not like this. She knew from the moment he returned on that horse and her heart uncoiled and she realized that the thought of losing him had become unbearable without her even noticing.

But she imagines asking him and something in her shatters.

Marriage is politics.

This is not.

This is more.

Does she want to spend the rest of her life with this man? Does she want to fear for him and risk herself and everything she has fought for – for him? She has already done so and it has cost her dearly and this would all be so much easier if he were someone she would merely tolerate so they could forge an alliance and there would be no thought of forever and she would not feel sick with worry over everything that might be.

Fear is a bad counsellor and so is-- she will not call it _love_.

But this occupies her thoughts now, all day, every day, and there is a war looming and an army of the dead marching south and if everything evil comes to pass, the end of the world is nigh.

This... attachment to Jon is an inopportune distraction. It cannot be. It should not be. It will be. That is why they are here. But she cannot jeopardize it by sealing it in perpetuity. For that, she is too aware of how it weakens her.

If Tyrion knew, he would concur.

 

**iv.**

There is a knock on the door. Her breath catches when she stands, a lone figure in the night, softly lit by candle light. It is him. It has to be. She has known that he would come, deep down she has known, hoped for it even, against all reason.

Her heart stumbles and starts to beat wildly, leaping against her chest like a chained animal raging against a cage. She smoothes her dress to calm herself. Then she makes for the door, taking measured steps. They sound impossibly loud against the silence of the inevitable.

_We should not..._

She pauses, her hand hovering half way abandoned. What? Indulge their fancies? Why not? They are young, they are free to...

Has she ever been free to do anything?

She touches the intricate metalwork. Then she opens the door.

If it has to be, it has to be now.

He is standing there like he has waited for this moment all of his life. His face is grave, single-minded, full of barely repressed want and need but his eyes, his eyes that are always sad for some reason, have a soft sheen to them. She thinks they should have done this sooner, they should have done this elsewhere, under a starry sky in an open field, if only there had ever been one. But she is stepping aside now and he is moving in, moving close, and she shuts the door.

She wonders if he has dreamt of this. She knows that she has. Often. How could she not? She would have dreamt about him even if she had hated him. She dreamt about him from the day she met him, irritated and intrigued and expecting this all to take a very different path. There is no shame in the sanctity of night. No one will ever have to know. But he will know, after tonight.

He closes the distance between them without touching her yet. Instead, his eyes roam over her face, searching for a sign, perhaps for a sign to stop. She looks up to him, inches apart, and waits. Part of her wants to reach out and grab his head and drag him down until their lips mash with spit and blood and bites but she finds herself unable to act. Now that the moment is finally here, her fantasies are no guidance. They were nothing compared to this, to breathing the same air and commanding none of it.

She wishes that she was wearing a flimsy nightgown, even if it would leave her feeling exposed. She could simply slip out of it and he would have all the invitation he ever needed.

Her eyes dart to his mouth.

Just as well.

He leans in, suddenly, and they are kissing before she knows it, chaste only in passing. She makes a sound, half surprise, half _finally_ , when their tongues mingle and their heat collides. Part of her wants to take it slow but that part has no power over this, over them. Slow is for an afternoon, for morning, for eternity.

They are not heedlessly rushing it either or they would have already ripped their clothes off, as much as that would even be possible with his riveted coat of plates and her stiff dress. But there is an urgency to their motions; to the way she is running her fingers over his jawline and down his neck, reveling in the roughness of his beard scraping over her skin; to the way one of his hands is finding the back of her head and tangling in her hair.

They gasp for air and stumble towards the bed, everything forgotten. No world beyond this world, no life beyond _this_.

She has never felt so pliable, so limbless with a soul so taut, so open and raw that she is almost trembling with anticipation. Her lips quiver as he catches them with his own and she just knows that this is not something she would ever need to teach herself to enjoy. She grasps at the cold leather encasing him and they begin to fumble with their clothes, eagerness overriding any sense of propriety. There is a clasp at her back that she sometimes struggles to undo without the help of her maidens and frustration overwhelms her before she realizes how ridiculous she must look in her efforts. A smile tugs at her lips and she thinks that if he were anyone else, she would be annoyed with herself, but once he has pulled his loosened coat over his head and sees her plight, he not only joins her in laughter but quickly reaches around her to lend a hand. It might be nervousness but she has nothing to be nervous about, knowing few things as well as how to please a man, a skill born out of necessity but a skill nonetheless. It must be something else, then.

They sober as he helps her undress, the mood growing serious once more, their movements slowing to match the beat of their breaths. Everything is closer now. There is no turning back. The flames of the candles barely flicker. The sea is calm; only the faintest breeze is stirring the moonlit water.

She shivers when his fingers graze her naked shoulder. All fighters have calloused hands – the hilts of their swords will accept no less. But there is a sweetness to the way he touches her, assured yet considerate; as if he had overcome an insecurity but not forgotten how it used to make him feel. What might have embittered a different man, has only made him kind. This may be the most startling realization she has come to: That a man such as him who has faced blood and grime and the dead, who has exhausted himself on the battlefield, who has fought all of his life against someone or somewhat – that such a man could have eyes brimming not with cruelty but with mercy, a tempered kind of mercy but mercy no less. Even Daario, whose company she enjoyed at the time, had no one other than himself on his mind and his love for her had been a love for her attention to him. She will not fault him for that; it is the way of the mercenaries to only care to the degree they can afford; it is within their rights to not let anything impede their chances of gain or survival.

But she is awed to have Jon prove her right, to reinforce that she was right for caring about more, about the people, all along. It is possible to do terrible things and still remain good at the core. Now she knows.

It lights a fire in her.

She trails the scars on his chest without a word, awfully aware how close they are, nothing between them anymore. He watches her, lowers his gaze, color rising to his cheeks. She kisses him then, softy, sweetly, her fingers caressing the sides of his face, sliding down his arm, lightly taking his hand, guiding them to the bed and climbing atop. He follows and for a moment they are content to lie there, wrapped around each other, exploring and turning and mapping the marks of their fates. The rush is gone, they know they have time, at least for the night.

When he finally rolls them over and pulls back, for a moment, to look at her, she realizes something else. When she is lying beneath him, her chest filled with trust instead of terror, her need for command relinquished–

When he searches her face, his eyes filled with love instead of worship–

When he finally slides into her and captures her mouth and her back arches into the push and her lips surge to meet his, open and wet, and her hands cling to his back–

When their shared breaths turn to pants and their skin to sweat and their rhythm to ripples running through their joined hips–

When her fingertips begin to glow and she buries them in his hair and she thinks her soul might explode–

When he buries his head in her neck and she closes her eyes and tears escape like gasps for air–

When they move in unison higher and higher–

She realizes that she was wrong--

That this, whatever this is, does not make her weak--

 

It makes her strong.


End file.
